


Come and See

by blindmadness



Category: Sleepy Hollow (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen, Minor canon divergence, dubcon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-23
Updated: 2013-12-23
Packaged: 2018-01-05 16:36:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1096168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blindmadness/pseuds/blindmadness
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Abbie and Ichabod face the Four Horsemen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Come and See

**Author's Note:**

  * For [wneleh](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wneleh/gifts).



> Written with the (somewhat canon-divergent) assumption that the Horsemen will be directly faced and defeated in their actual Biblical order. As vague as possible so as to remain as canon-compliant as possible for as long as possible (under the circumstances).
> 
> Dubcon warning due to an apocalypse-made-them-do-it scenario in which both parties are compromised.

“Crane,” Abbie says, so congested the word comes out sounding like _Crade,_ “just take the damn medicine.”

Ichabod looks down his red-tipped nose at her, his expression even more baleful due to the shadows under his eyes. “I can see why you would advocate for it so strongly,” he says, his voice barely above a gravelly rumble, “considering how well it’s worked on you.”

Abbie glares at him, but there’s no real heat in it. She’s too tired. “The other medicines are meant to treat the symptoms,” she explains for what must be the fifth time. “This one -- ” she breaks off to sneeze, explosively, four times in a row “ -- this one makes you go to sleep.”

Ichabod turns the dark look onto the bottle of NyQuil instead. “Even worse,” he pronounces firmly, as he has every time Abbie’s brought it up. “I have no intention of -- ” He’s interrupted by a coughing fit, starting off bad and ending worse, hoarse and ragged and sounding as if it’s coming from deep in his chest.

It’s been like this all week. The day after they finally managed to get rid of Pestilence, Abbie woke up feeling like shit -- runny nose, heavy sneezing, foggy head. She didn’t think anything of it at first, dismissing it as just a bad cold, but three days later, even copious doses of medicine hadn’t made a dent in her symptoms and she was spending the entire time in a congested, sinus-headache daze. That was unusual; she tended to be pretty good at shaking sickness off.

The fact that she hadn’t seen or heard from Ichabod for the entire three days, too, was suspicious. At first she’d figured that he deserved a bit of a break -- both of them did -- but three days without word definitely merited a trip up to the cabin.

She’d entered to find Ichabod doubled over, coughing so hard his face was red; he was only partially clothed, his hair unkempt, the cabin musty with the stale air of sickness. The only indication that he hadn’t spent all three days curled miserably on the bed were the dishes in the sink -- only Ichabod Crane would attempt to cook while struck with debilitating coughing fits.

After a few minutes in one another’s company, they’d concluded it was some sort of irritating remnant of Pestilence’s presence, and that they’d just have to live with it until it blew over, however long that took. Abbie hadn’t, after that, made the conscious decision to stay in the cabin; she had just been too tired to consider going back home after a quick CVS run (which she knew would probably be worthless, considering the origin of their illnesses, but she’d always felt better doing something about her problems, regardless of the circumstances).

The cabin itself has been in a mess in the few days since Abbie’s been crashing on the couch. The floor is littered with used tissues, the air is heavy, and all available surfaces are covered in assorted cold medicines, cough syrups, and pain relievers, exactly none of which have had much of any effect. Neither of them have had the energy to do dishes; Abbie’s finally taken to just ordering takeout before Ichabod can make it to the stove, because the idiot has still been trying to cook, despite the fact that he’s only slept a handful of hours in the past couple of days. The trash from that is piling up, too, and the only thing that’s been motivating Abbie to take care of it promptly is that the cabin’s isolated enough to attract animals. Both of them are probably too sick and tired to fend off squirrels, let alone bears.

Abbie sighs heavily, looking at Ichabod. He’s the picture of misery (save the determinedly exasperated look on his face), wrapped in a worn plaid blanket with a steaming mug of mint tea in his hands. His hair is scraggly, his face is flushed with fever, and his breath is wheezing raggedly from his chest. She knows she doesn’t look much better; the skin around her nostrils is inflamed from being rubbed with tissues every two minutes, she’s too congested to breathe through her nose, and the only reason the shadows under her eyes aren’t as visible as Ichabod’s is because her skin is darker. She sincerely hopes nobody is planning on hastening the apocalypse to this week, because they’re not in any kind of shape to try stopping it.

Hell, with how she’s feeling now, the end of the world might even be an improvement.

“Crane,” Abbie finally says, with a patience she’s long past feeling, prying the cup of tea from his hands and replacing it with the bottle of NyQuil. “We need to get better. This might not help with that, but it’ll help you sleep, which helps your body fight off whatever hell-germs are getting us right now. Come on, you went to school -- this is pretty basic stuff.”

Ichabod shoots her a baleful look that, considering how tired and obviously sick he is, just manages to look rather pathetic. It’s easy not to lose her temper with him when he looks so terrible. “The germ theory of medicine gained widespread acceptance nearly a hundred years after my time,” he rasps out. “I learned no such thing at any level of my schooling.”

“Fair enough.” Abbie actually hadn’t known that. She wonders how much more Ichabod’s picked up in his slow but steady discovery of how much information is on the internet. “But you’re an observant guy. Surely you’ve noticed that you tend to feel better after a good night’s sleep?”

Ichabod’s doing his best to look dignified and long-suffering, but it’s marred by his coughing fit (which sets Abbie into a sneezing fit of her own). “Of course,” he mutters, clearly caught between his inability to lie on such a simple matter and his irritation that Abbie is, once again, right.

“So.” She takes the NyQuil from him, pours a healthy amount into the plastic cap, and sets in on the table in front of Ichabod. She reaches for the cap on the Robitussin bottle a few feet away and pours some into that, too. “See? I’m going to take some with you. We could both use the sleep.” True, Abbie’s been getting at least a little sleep every night, but she’s not above supplementing the meager rest with a more solid, drug-induced kind.

Ichabod eyes her, then the NyQuil, with almost equal measures of suspicion. Abbie has no idea if it’s his inherent trust of her, his exhaustion, or the illness clouding his judgment when he finally takes the cap in acquiescence. “Very well,” he says, as if he’s conceding to a request to ingest poison. She supposes to him, it isn’t too far off.

Abbie takes her own cup and tips it gently in Ichabod’s direction. “You first,” she says firmly, and he narrows his eyes at her, but downs the cup in one swift motion.

Well, he attempts to -- but he splutters, and half of it sprays out of his mouth, and Abbie laughs so hard she almost forgets anything at all is wrong. Ichabod struggling to understand the modern world, she thinks in satisfaction, is the best medicine.

 

Defeating Famine takes an entire day and it’s more draining than anything they’ve done before, so it makes sense for Abbie to crash on Ichabod’s couch that night.

The trouble starts the next day, when Ichabod attempts to make breakfast and realizes his food supply is far too low. He’s still not completely confident in his ability to navigate the grocery store alone and Abbie’s too tired for shopping. She’s almost positive, though, that she has some eggs in her own apartment, so she makes a run back to town to grab whatever else is in her kitchen.

When she gets there, she goes through the fridge and the cabinets three times, carefully, top to bottom, coming to the same conclusion each time: her pantry is completely empty save for a jar of marshmallow cream, half a case of Red Bull, some rimming sugar, and three packs of ramen. Her fridge isn’t faring much better with a few near-empty Tupperwares of leftovers, some Kraft singles, a box of baking soda that’s been there since last Christmas, and a box of Whitecastle burgers in the freezer (Abbie regretted that one even as she was buying it).

Abbie’s still standing on front of her fridge, bewildered -- she’s forgetful about some things, sure, but she keeps pretty good track of her food -- when it occurs to her. _Famine. Of course._

With a sigh, she grabs the ramen and the burgers and settles in for a week of agonizingly unhealthy eating at Ichabod’s place.

 

The repercussions of Famine stretch far past what either of them expect -- it doesn’t stop at a gas leak closing their grocery store for a few days, while the 24-hour McDonald’s and Taco Bell across the street cast their ever-present neon glow. Since outgrowing her teenage troublemaking days, Abbie’s managed to tamp down her risk-taking inclinations in favor of staying on the straight and narrow (more or less), but she suddenly finds herself speeding -- leaving the cabin door locked just so that she can pick it on her way in -- barely resisting the urge to break and enter or to steal from the liquor store that she just _knows_ is being left unlocked. She browses plane tickets for places she’s always wanted to go and fiercely hushes the voice inside her saying that they’re really not _that_ expensive. Her first day back at work, she nearly tells half a dozen people the truth about Ichabod and their mission before deciding to call out for the rest of the week -- a decision Irving supports, once she explains it to him. Active duty is no place for a cop who’s found herself indulging a hunger for risk.

Once she comes home from work, Ichabod practically latches onto her, openly begging her not to leave him alone again with an expression completely devoid of his usual quiet dignity. Abbie’s bewildered, but consents, not putting it together until she gets up off the couch to make a cup of coffee (she assumes the amount of sugar she’s planning on dumping into it makes it unhealthy enough for Famine’s standards) and Ichabod exclaims, “Miss Mills, _where_ are you going?” in tones of genuine panic.

Hunger for company, Abbie wonders? Hunger for companionship -- hunger for real, human connection. No wonder, she thinks in sudden, profound sympathy. No wonder that’s what’s been triggered in him. He’s been adjusting so well (relatively speaking), it’s easy to forget that she is, quite literally, all he has -- the only human being consistently in his life that he trusts, that he cares about, that knows exactly who he is and why he’s here, in every detail. Being forced to give into it so completely must be mortifying for him, but Abbie thinks that being honest about what he needs, even if it is apocalyptically enhanced, might be good for him.

So for the rest of the day, she doesn’t move far from the couch, and she gently reassures Ichabod whenever she has to run to the bathroom or grab more pseudo-food. It’s the longest time they’ve ever spent in such close physical proximity, and she has to admit that it’s comforting to her, too. She can’t imagine going through this week, or the sickness after dealing with Pestilence, on her own. She’d have thought she was losing her mind completely. She can’t help but be glad that she isn’t alone.

Maybe, she thinks wryly, she’s got a little hunger for human connection herself.

It’s a struggle, at the end of the day, to convince Ichabod that they really do need to be parted now, but his innate sense of propriety prevails, and he wishes Abbie a good night (his eyes convey the profound gratitude he’s probably too embarrassed to voice) before retiring to his room.

And that should be the end of the night -- but it’s far from it.

It takes Abbie far too long to realize why it is that she can’t get to sleep -- she feels too cold, then too hot, then too uncomfortable, then her mind won’t stop racing -- and when it occurs to her, she closes her eyes and curses the memory of Famine in every colorful way she knows how, then wastes a few more minutes wishing she knew more languages so that she could curse the horseman even more.

She supposes she shouldn’t be surprised. She’s got a healthy sex drive, after all, and it _has_ been a long time. A very long time. And she _is_ spending most of her days in close proximity to an attractive British man, in very physical and secretive activities. Come to think of it, she’s actually surprised that that’s not the hunger she’s been fighting for the past three days.

Thinking a fervent apology to Ichabod, who would probably have a heart attack if he realized Abbie was masturbating on his couch, she slips her hand down past her underwear and pajama pants. She closes her eyes, lets her legs shift apart, and does her best to visualize the most recent instance of fantastic sex she’s had.

She makes herself come twice within five minutes, and to her intense frustration, she somehow feels even worse than when she started. Her skin feels extra sensitive, her blood feels heated, and there’s urgency coiling, hot and desperate, low in her belly. The urge to take the risk is back – impatience wriggling its way through every line of her body. She closes her eyes again, tightly, whispers several curses out loud, and steels herself for what she knows she has to do next.

By the time she reaches Ichabod’s door, most of her shame is gone. She pushes it open without knocking and feels the heat surge higher when she sees that he’s awake, staring restlessly at the ceiling.

He lifts his head upon hearing her enter the room, and he doesn’t look surprised to see her there at all. In fact, he looks relieved, and that makes the whole thing so much easier.

They literally go all night, in every possible position that Abbie can think of, for the simple reason that nothing feels quite satisfying enough. It’s good, certainly -- she enjoys every single instance, and she even comes almost every time, despite how spent she’s feeling by the time dawn approaches -- fueled by the urgency both of them are feeling, urgency that channels itself into wringing every possible moment of pleasure from the whole experience. More than a few times in the night, Abbie’s quite glad the cabin’s as isolated as it is; her inhibitions long since thrown out of the window, she’s not bothering to be anything other than loud.

After the first few hours, Abbie had to start getting creative, so by the time the sun creeps over the horizon, they’ve covered more or less every surface in the room, and both of them are exhausted, collapsed next to each other on the bed without the strength to move again. But the hunger is finally starting to abate -- or maybe it’s just wishful thinking on Abbie’s part, or the fact that she’s finally no longer thinking about it enough to prevent her from closing her eyes and relaxing into much-needed sleep, the comforting weight of Ichabod warm and solid next to her.

 

The days building up to their final confrontation with War are worse than the actual battle. Like war itself, Ichabod tells her; the actual fighting is always over more quickly than you think, fueled by adrenaline rather than fear and anxiety -- but it’s such a brutal conclusion that Abbie doesn’t have the strength to face the aftermath alone, and she ends up sleeping on Ichabod’s couch yet again that night.

When she wakes up, it’s to the sounds of Ichabod making breakfast (the fridge is fully stocked once again), and she’s unreasonably irritated by the clanging of the dishes. Is she imagining it, or is he being much louder than usual?

“Can you maybe try to keep it down now that you have someone sleeping in the living room?” she demands, sitting up and shooting a glare into the kitchen.

Ichabod turns to her, startled, his brows descending into a frown. “My utmost apologies,” he drawls darkly, “for attempting to _feed you.”_

It only gets worse from there.

Every little thing starts to explode into a fight -- a real fight, complete with screaming and knocking things over (although that’s mostly Ichabod, and mostly done by accident), seething at one another and saying things they probably don’t entirely mean but sure as hell feel true in the heat of the fight. Abbie’s not entirely sure why she’s still staying in the cabin, and she’s not entirely sure why Ichabod hasn’t kicked her out yet. All of their habits are getting on each other’s nerves, and it becomes common for them to spend hours in the same several feet of space, stewing in fury, never exchanging words but occasionally shooting furious glares at one another.

Abbie likes to stay up a little later than Ichabod, and he makes loudly sarcastic comments about how much he enjoys being deprived of the sleep he desires. Ichabod reads while Abbie watches TV, and she finds herself so intensely irritated by the sound of his pages flipping that she snaps at him over it. Ichabod undercooks the chicken for dinner and Abbie accuses him of trying to make her sick -- Abbie prepares for work and Ichabod accuses her of being selfish and short-sighted.

“Excuse me?” Abbie demands, abruptly furious. This War shit is really going to take a toll on her blood pressure, all this instant, inflammatory anger. _“What_ did you just say to me?”

Ichabod lifts his chin, stubborn; his anger burns much cooler than Abbie’s, she’s found out. He becomes cold, remote, intensely sarcastic, and it stokes the heat of her own temper even further. “It’s a foolish decision, Abbie. Are you going to snap at the captain if he so much as looks at you wrong? Will you interrogate a witness using physical force?”

“That’s my business, not yours!” Abbie yells, striding closer to Ichabod; she feels absurd, standing next to him, a full foot shorter than he is, and it makes her even angrier. She’s so furious that she wants to be _towering_ with it. “What gives you the right to -- ”

“I have every right! Have you noticed how closely our lives intersect now? Anything that jeopardizes our mission is my business -- as you always remind me -- or is that simply an excuse to interfere with _my_ life whenever you choose, and ignore the same dictates as they might apply to you?”

“Nothing gives you the right to speak to me like that, Crane!” Abbie’s hands are balled into fists, her gaze boring into Ichabod’s. The urge to physically hurt him briefly courses through her, but even under these circumstances, she has no intention of actually causing him harm. “This is my _job!_ I’ll go if I damn well please, you know how important it is -- ”

“What’s more important is not jeopardizing yourself for idiotic reasons,” Ichabod snaps back, his voice rising in volume. It looks as though he’s working up to some heat himself. “You need to conserve your energy, as you did when you were ill and when you were -- hungry.” Flags of color burn on Ichabod’s cheeks, either from anger or from the embarrassment of the memory of their Famine-induced night. “We’re nearing our last battle with the horsemen, and you won’t be present for it, of course, but I still need you to be -- ”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” Abbie flings up both hands, her shock so profound she actually takes a step back. “What the _fucking hell_ do you mean, I won’t be _present_ for it?”

The color is still high on Ichabod’s face, but his jaw is set, his expression resolute. “We are the ones with history. The battle is meant to be ours. Our bloodlines are no longer merged, but our destines are still bound together, as closely as those of you and I. It must fall to me to bear the burden of -- ”

“No!” Abbie’s voice has escalated to nearly a shriek by now. Her mind is whirling; she can barely process his words. “It must fall to you to bear the -- that’s moronic, Crane! We’re in this together. We have always been in this together, and that’s the way it’s going to be, right to the end!”

“This is not up for discussion.” Ichabod’s voice is back to being tight, intensely controlled, his face bloodless except for his furious blush, his hands still clenched into tight fists. “I refuse to even contemplate -- ”

“Well, too fucking bad, you’re not going to have to contemplate it, because there’s nothing to contemplate! I’m going to be there, end of discussion! There shouldn’t even _be_ a discussion! Crane -- _Ichabod -- ”_

“ -- I refuse to even contemplate the possibility of you being hurt!” Ichabod bellows, so loudly and unexpectedly that Abbie is startled into silence. “If you were to die or face other irreparable harm as a result of this – how could I ever live with myself, knowing I had let that happen? Knowing that because of my presence in your life -- my _unnatural_ presence -- I shouldn’t even be alive, let alone here, ruining your life! Putting you in danger! You wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for me. You have been miles away, content with your life, not running after monsters and being manipulated by Biblical entities. I can’t stand it any longer!”

And with that remarkable speech, Ichabod whirls on his heels, strides to his room, and slams the door behind him, leaving Abbie still slack-jawed and stunned in the kitchen.

 

The next morning, Abbie wakes to find Ichabod seated at the table, head bowed, slumping over his clasped hands, his face miserable with remorse.

“Stop that,” Abbie says hoarsely, sitting down across from him. “Stop that and listen to me. The first day we met -- you were right. Our fates _are_ entwined. And they will be until all this is over -- and maybe even after that, too. That means we are in this together, always. Until the end. Whatever one of us faces, the other one does too. That means it’s not up to you to leave me out of this final fight. Okay?”

Ichabod lifts his head, his expression deeply contrite. He nods, once, slowly.

Abbie reaches across the table to lay her hand across his, a small smile on her face. “Hey,” she says, infusing her voice with more confidence than she feels. “We’ve done all right so far, haven’t we? I’m going to be fine. Both of us will be fine. We’ll get through this.”

Ichabod relaxes -- not completely, but enough to make her feel better -- and returns her smile with a barely-present one of his own. “Yes,” he says, and she can tell his attempts at confidence are about as strong as her own. Still, it helps that he’s trying. “We will.”

 

The morning after, all traces of the fallout from War are gone from their system, which means their last task is coming any day now. They have to be prepared.

Ichabod reads and rereads the texts; Abbie loads and reloads her guns. They eat breakfast silently, as much as they can -- they’ll certainly need the food, and what if they don’t have a chance to eat again for some time? -- and they dress with purpose, carefully strapping on each weapon, checking and double-checking that everything is in place.

They do one last sweep of the cabin, looking everywhere that they can think to. Just in case there’s anything they’ve missed. Just in case there’s anything else left to do. But there isn’t -- they’ve prepared too well. The time is now, and there’s no putting it off any longer.

As they close the cabin door behind them, Ichabod reaches for Abbie’s hand, and she laces her fingers through his, squeezing tightly. She takes a deep breath and feels him echo it. They don’t look at each other, but she can feel him standing up taller, and she knows she’s doing the same. Drawing strength from each other’s presence. They might not know what awaits them -- but whatever it is, they’ll face it together, as they have everything else.

Ichabod smiles at her, and she at him, and they go hand in hand to their final battle with Death.

**Author's Note:**

> Given the lack of fondness for romance noted, I've written this as strong friendship (with apocalypse-induced benefits, granted), but given my shipping tendencies, I've also written it so that either interpretation is valid, hence tagging this with both friendship and pairing! 
> 
> I saw "woobie face" in the prompt and my mind immediately went to sick Ichabod and then to Pestilence, so this was originally just going to be an expanded version of the first chunk of story. But, uh, I am unable to let things go, so it expanded into... all of them instead. And it was exceedingly fun to write, and to think about, so thank you for allowing me to do so, lovely recipient, and I hope you had half as much fun reading it as I did writing it!


End file.
